Chapter 4 - The House Next Door
Marcus swung the crowbar in a wide, vicious arc aimed straight for my head.
Instinct took over. I ducked lower, the heavy iron whistling inches above my hair, and drove forward with all my weight, slamming my shoulder into his midsection. We both crashed into the kitchen island, knocking a tray of glasses to the tile floor with a deafening shatter.
Marcus gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, but he recovered instantly. He drove his elbow down into my back, sending a surge of blinding pain down my spine. I stumbled backward, dropping the brass lamp.
Before I could regain my balance, Marcus grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and slammed me against the kitchen wall. His face was inches from mine, his eyes wild and unhinged.
"Where are they?" he hissed, raising the crowbar. "Where did you put them?"
"Go to hell," I spat.
Marcus raised the iron bar to strike, but before he could swing, the sound of blaring sirens erupted in the distance. The high-pitched wails echoed down Elm Street, growing louder with every passing second.
Marcus froze. He looked toward the front of the house, his jaw working as he calculated his options. He knew he didn't have time to search the house, break down locked doors, and drag two screaming toddlers back across the lawn before the police arrived.
With a furious curse, he shoved me hard against the wall, turned, and bolted out through the broken glass of the back door, disappearing into the thick brush of the woods behind our properties.
I sank to my knees on the kitchen floor, gasping for air, my heart hammering against my chest. Outside, red and blue lights were already flashing through the front windows, casting long, pulsing shadows across the living room walls.
I forced myself up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my back, and hurried to unlock the guest bedroom.
"It's over," I called out gently, lifting the dust ruffle. "The police are here. You're safe."
Lily and Maya crawled out slowly, trembling violently. I wrapped my arms around them both, lifting them up, and walked out to the front door to meet the responding officers.
Two officers had their weapons drawn on the porch, while a third was securing the perimeter.
"Hands where I can see them!" the lead officer shouted through the open door.
"It's okay! I'm the homeowner! I'm the one who called!" I yelled back, holding the twins close so the officers could clearly see I was holding terrified children.
The officers lowered their weapons instantly upon seeing the toddlers. Within minutes, the house was filled with police, paramedics, and investigators. I handed Lily and Maya over to a kind female officer who wrapped them in warm blankets and gave them juice boxes from her patrol car.
I gave my statement to the detective in charge—a stern, grey-haired woman named Detective Miller.
"He went into the woods behind the house," I told her, pointing toward the shattered kitchen. "But Detective—his wife, Sarah. She's still in that house next door. She's in danger."
Detective Miller nodded grimly. "We're sending a team over right now to secure the residence."
"I'm coming with you," I said, stepping forward.
"Sir, stay here with the paramedics," Miller ordered.
"No," I insisted. "Sarah doesn't know you. She thinks the police are working with Marcus—he brainwashed her and the kids into believing that. If a squad of armed cops breaks down her door, she might panic. She saw me earlier. She knows I tried to help the girls."
Detective Miller studied my face for a long moment, evaluating my tone, before letting out a heavy sigh. "Fine. You stay behind me. You do not enter a room until I clear it. Understood?"
"Understood."
We crossed the lawn between our houses under the heavy glow of police spotlights. The house at 414 Elm Street stood dark and silent, a stark contrast to the chaotic scene at my home.
Detective Miller knocked heavily on the front door. "Police Department! Sarah, open the door!"
Silence.
Miller turned to her partner, who readied a heavy steel battering ram. "Break it down."
With two powerful strikes, the front door burst open, splitting the frame. Officers flooded into the entry hall with flashlights and drawn sidearms, shouting commands into the darkness.
"Clear!"
"Kitchen clear!"
"Living room clear!"
I stepped through the broken door frame, my eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. The house was eerie—barely any furniture, unpacked boxes stacked against walls, and a heavy, suffocating smell of dampness and fear.
"Upstairs!" an officer called out from the landing. "We've got a locked door!"
I followed Detective Miller up the stairs. At the end of the narrow hallway was a heavy wooden door secured with an unusual feature: an exterior iron sliding bolt and a heavy padlock.
The room. The words the little girl had whispered came rushing back to me.
"Sarah?" I called out, pushing past the officers to stand near the door. "Sarah, it's Julian! From next door! Your girls are safe! They're with me, they're unhurt! Open the door!"
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From inside the locked room, a faint, sobbing voice answered.
"Julian?"
